


Wrong

by LateStarter58



Series: Theme and Variations: Tom and Livvy into the future [3]
Category: British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-13 23:15:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17497205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LateStarter58/pseuds/LateStarter58
Summary: Tom is going home





	Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> This tiny drabble was inspired by a picture of Tom on the Northern Line and a conversation I had about it with a friend. I'm sure he was fine, but he looked tired to us... And I liked the idea of someone waiting there for him.

Tired. So tired.

I need her.

Been tired before, worn out, but this is different. My mind aches. I like – I _live_ \- to work hard, but this isn’t work. It’s torture.

Nearly home, thank god. I need to see her. To touch her.

This train keeps stopping in tunnels, staying too long at stations... _Get moving! Get me home, please._

Here’s my stop. _Nearly home_. She’s there, waiting for me. If she wasn’t, I don’t know what I’d do. I haven’t had to question a work choice in a long time. Had a run of luck, I suppose. But this is so tough. So hard.

Too hard.

Everything feels wrong. Everything. The other actors feel it too; I can see the strain in their eyes. But I am the lead, so it’s mainly on me. That fucking man just won’t listen and it’s too hard. Questions; all the time it’s questions and arguing and disagreement and it _all feels so wrong._

There’s our door. Just get inside before you drop, Thomas. It’s too much effort to turn, just shove it shut with your back. Coat on the chair, laptop, keys. Use the last of your energy to climb the stairs.

I can smell her already. I take a deep breath and let her fragrance soothe me. She is my balm, my love, my lifeblood.

She’s in bed, reading most likely. I can hear soft music, piano… It’s Chopin: I know it. One of her favourites, and mine. Three strides from the stairs and I can see her.

There you are.

She sets her book aside and reaches her arms out to me. I pause, just looking. I want to cry, but even that needs more than I have left. Instead, I take off my glasses and rub my eyes, full of grit and aching. Then I go to her and she holds me.

Fingers stroke my neck gently and I feel it drifting away. All the clamour, all the frustration, all the conflicting noises in my head, they are all dwindling down as her warmth and love soak into me. It’s fading away at last.

I am home.


End file.
